“Do I know it?” Leo smiled warmly. “My dear, I personally read the abstract of your dissertation. Our foundation was about to offer you a research grant before you suddenly dropped off the map. I’ve been looking for you for three years.”
The applause in L’Étoile eventually died down, replaced by the electric buzz of gossip. The energy in the room had shifted tectonically. Five minutes ago, Eleanor Vance was a waitress accused of theft.
Now, she was the protagonist of a real-life drama that the city’s elite would be talking about for weeks. But Eleanor didn’t feel triumphant. She felt drained. The adrenaline crash left her shaky and weak.
Her hands clutched her apron, as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Mr. Henderson, the manager who had been ready to throw her to the wolves moments before, suddenly materialized at her elbow.
His face was a mask of feverish, sweaty sycophancy.
“Eleanor, my goodness, Ellie!” Henderson gushed, his voice cracking. “That was incredible! I had no idea you were acquainted with Mr. Wallace. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We could have… I mean, I would have handled this entire situation with much more respect.”
Eleanor slowly turned her head to look at him. She saw him for what he was: a pathetic weathervane, spinning in whatever direction the winds of power and money blew.
“Were you going to fire me, Mr. Henderson?” she asked quietly. “Were you going to let the police take me away, knowing I was innocent?”
“No, no, of course not! I was just trying to de-escalate,” Henderson stammered, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
“It was just protocol. But listen, take the rest of the night off. Paid, of course. In fact, take the week off. On the house. We value you so much here, Eleanor.”
“Go away, Mr. Henderson.”
The deep voice cut through his babbling.
Leo Wallace hadn’t returned to his table. He stood nearby, his presence filling the space. He gestured to the empty chair across from his own.
“Ms. Vance,” Leo said, his tone gentle but firm. “Please, sit down. You’ve been on your feet for far too long, and we have a great deal to discuss.”
“I can’t sit with a customer,” Eleanor replied automatically. The rules were ingrained in her. “It’s against restaurant policy.”
Leo shot a brief glance at Henderson.
“Tomorrow morning, my lawyers will be buying out this restaurant’s debt.”
“I believe I can set my own rules here now. Henderson, bring Ms. Vance a glass of water and perhaps a glass of that wine she so expertly defended. Now.”
Henderson scurried away, bowing as he went. Eleanor looked at the chair, then at Leo’s kind face.
She slowly untied her apron. It felt like shedding an old skin. She sat down. Before Leo could speak, a shadow fell over the table. Eleanor flinched, expecting Gavin had returned, but it was Julia.
The woman in the red dress looked shaken, but free.
Her mascara was slightly smudged, but she looked more human and real than when she had entered as a beautiful doll. She was clutching her purse with both hands.
“I just wanted to say…” Julia began, her voice breaking. “Thank you. And I’m sorry for being a coward. I should have said something sooner, when he was making fun of your French.”
“I knew it was wrong. I was just… I was afraid of him.”
Eleanor looked at Julia. She saw a woman who had been trapped in the orbit of a narcissistic tyrant, a woman who had just found the strength to break free.
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Eleanor said.
“He’s a bully. People like him make everyone around them afraid.”
Julia nodded, wiping a tear from her cheek. She reached into her purse and pulled out a thick wad of cash. It was a large sum, several hundred dollars. She placed it on the table, then grabbed a napkin and quickly wrote a number on it.
“This isn’t a tip,” Julia said firmly. “It’s an apology. And this is my personal number. My father owns an art gallery in the River North district. We need smart people who understand art and history. If you ever want a job where you don’t have to serve jerks like Gavin, call me. Seriously.”
Julia looked at Leo, gave him a respectful nod, and walked out of the restaurant with her head held high. She ordered a ride on her phone, leaving Gavin’s luxury SUV empty at the curb.
Eleanor stared at the napkin. The world was spinning too fast.
“A rare thing,” Leo said thoughtfully, watching Julia leave. “Character. It often reveals itself at the most unexpected times.”
He turned his full attention to Eleanor. The playful glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by a sharp, business-like focus.
“So, Eleanor. Let’s talk about your research.”
Eleanor took a sip of the water Henderson had nervously placed before her.
“That was a long time ago, Mr. Wallace. In another life.”
“Three years isn’t so long,” Leo corrected gently. “Not for a mind like yours.”
“Do you know why I remembered your name out of hundreds of others?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“I was just a student.”
“No,” Leo smiled. “There were many students, but only one wrote a paper on ‘the semantic architecture of silence.’ I read your article in the university journal.”
“I’m a businessman by trade, but a humanist at heart. My foundation funds countless grants. Your work—it was bold, it was original.” He leaned forward. “We were prepared to offer you a fellowship with full funding and housing. And then you disappeared.”
“The department said you withdrew for family reasons. We tried to find you, but your phone was disconnected.”
Eleanor looked down at her work-roughened hands. A hot wave of shame for her poverty washed over her.
“I couldn’t stay in academia. My father had a stroke.”
“The medical bills… they were more than we could handle.”
“And so you came to work here,” Leo concluded, gesturing around the room, “to make fast cash.”
“The care facility costs a fortune every month,” Eleanor whispered. “Plus medications. I had no choice.”
“I had to trade the library for a serving tray.”
Leo nodded slowly. There was no pity in his gaze, only deep understanding and respect.
“You sacrificed your future for his present. That’s noble, Eleanor, but it’s a tragedy for the academic world. A mind like yours shouldn’t be worrying about corkage fees and the whims of rich fools.”
“It’s my life now,” Eleanor said, trying to sound firm. “I’m managing.”
“Are you?” Leo gave a meaningful look at her worn-out shoes and tired face. “You’re surviving, my dear. You’re not living. And you are most certainly burying your talent.”
He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. It wasn’t a flashy gold card. It was simple, heavy, cream-colored cardstock with plain black text: “The Wallace Foundation.”
“Eleanor,” Leo said. “I didn’t just come here for dinner tonight. We’re launching a new archival project here in Chicago. We’re digitizing and translating a collection of correspondence between 18th-century French diplomats and early American leaders. A massive trove of documents that no one has ever studied.”
“We need a Director of Archival Interpretation.”
He pushed the card across the table.
“I don’t need another manager,” Leo said. “I have an army of those. I need someone who understands the soul of a language, the context of an era. I need someone who can read a letter from 1793 and understand the author’s heart. I need you.”
Eleanor stared at the card. It felt hot to the touch.
“Mr. Wallace,” she said, her voice trembling. “I… I can’t right now. I can’t leave this job. My father is in that facility in Wisconsin. I drive up to see him every Sunday.”
“And academic positions—they don’t pay enough to cover his bills. I need the tips, the cash, right now. I’m in debt.”
Leo raised an eyebrow.
“You think I would offer you a position that pays less than waiting tables?”
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